


Frozen Faith

by treefrogie84



Series: Old Guard Bingo [3]
Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Depression, Introspection, Language Barrier, M/M, Period Typical Attitudes, the crusaders were not the good guys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-02
Updated: 2020-09-02
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:47:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26258914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/treefrogie84/pseuds/treefrogie84
Summary: The moon illuminates the sand, casting long shadows before it, a much gentler light than the harsh summer sun, but without the sun’s warmth either. If he had anything to burn, he wouldn’t start a fire. Even a small fire can be seen for a long distance, and he can see the camps’ fires still, miles away.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani & Nicky | Nicolo di Genova, Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Series: Old Guard Bingo [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1901185
Comments: 4
Kudos: 78
Collections: The Old Guard Bingo





	Frozen Faith

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: Huddling for Warmth  
> This is actually the second version of this fic I wrote, and one that ended up being a lot more about what's going on in Nicky's head than the other. It's also a lot more depressing than the other, go figure.
> 
> Anyway, many thanks to [Avanie](https://avaniesque.tumblr.com/) for reading over this and fixing my commas and obnoxious phrasing.
> 
> If you think I need to tag a thing, let me know.

Nicolo’s camp is little more than a single saddlebag, his sword— lying close at hand— and his cloak, spread out under him as a blanket.

The moon illuminates the sand, casting long shadows before it, a much gentler light than the harsh summer sun, but without the sun’s warmth either. If he had anything to burn, he wouldn’t start a fire. Even a small fire can be seen for a long distance, and he can see the camps’ fires still, miles away.

Still celebrating their…

He supposes it was a victory, wresting control of Jerusalem from the pagans. But if it was a victory, it feels hollow, the foundation washed away by the blood of thousands. Christians killed alongside Jews and Muslims alike, leaving the city… empty except for blood and corpses.

This is the mercy and forgiveness of their Father? They have taken the Holy City, the Second Coming is at hand, and Nicolo, trained as he is, can only pray that the Almighty has sent clearer signs to the princes and bishops, as he no longer knows why they are in the Holy Land.

He abandoned the Holy City and princes, his holy calling and training, to walk into the desert. God will preserve him, or not, as is his will.

At least everyone who knows him also thinks he’s dead, struck down by a sword even as he murdered the swordsman. (It’s the fourth or fifth time, he thinks, that they’ve killed each other, but this the first time that could not be explained by luck and blades miraculously turned aside. The first time was over a year ago, the last but one only a few days ago, in a small skirmish along the road. And of course today, with the sword buried in his center.) No commander or prince will ride after him, no priest will seek to exorcise him as a demonic influence.

It’s just him, his sword, and his saddlebag. Not even a horse— a horse would be missed.

There’s a small scuffle in the sand, a dulled thunk of a hoof against rock. Nicolo starts to reach for his sword before letting his hand drop. God has rejected him five times, he has nothing to fear but being rejected a sixth.

Another soldier fleeing, is all he can see in the silvery light. It leeches the color and warmth from everything, even the sand beneath him is rapidly cooling.

The horse whickers, suddenly fearful of the blood stench that Nicolo is certain follows him. Nicolo stays still, knees curled to his chest as he sits and watches and does something like prayer, right arm still half-reaching for his weapon.

He can’t understand the words that fall out of the man’s mouth, only the unmistakable silhouette of his sword, gripped tight in one hand while the other hand drops the horse’s reins. He tries again when Nicolo stays silent, changing to the trading cant that Nicolo has learned, a dozen languages melded into one. “Who are you, haunting the hills in the night?”

Any other time, he would welcome the challenge to stay ahead of this man, to barter with him for a spare bedroll or perhaps even some food, but tonight, he is too weary. Bone, soul, weary. “No one,” he says finally. “Traveler, looking for rest.”

He probably got a word or two wrong, but he can’t bring himself to care. Just leave him in peace, allow him… something. A quiet death in the wastes, if he’s lucky.

(Why wasn’t he allowed to join the tired martyrs of the battle, disillusioned and hungry?)

The other man stills before dropping his horse’s too long reins. The horse is well-trained, standing still while his belongings are unloaded, and then while its light tack is pulled from its back.

“No fire, good.”

Nicolo shrugs, even though he doubts it will be visible in the half-light. “Too close.” He pauses, trying and failing to remember any useful vocabulary before adding, “Bandits.” He marched into this land full of faith and hope and he’s reduced to calling his countrymen bandits. Because they are feeding off this land like locusts, a swarm more interested in gold than God, leaving nothing but death and corpses behind.

The Muslim sets up his own small camp nearby, keeping his sword at hand, but otherwise making no allowance for the presence of his enemy so close. Maybe he has nothing to fear in this desert, easily outpacing the Christian troops.

Swallowing, Nicolo turns his back on the other man while he completes his chores and rituals, wrapping himself in his too light cloak. Looking up, he counts the stars, wondering if any of them are the same as at home, and shivers.

* * *

The man across the hollow shifts restlessly again, sending a small cascade of sand down the dune. He must be cold— even Yusuf wrapped in his bedroll is chilled, and he is prepared.

He cannot leave the man to freeze, Christian or not, soldier or not.

Huffing, he grabs his belt knife and creeps across the divide. “Pax,” he calls, one of the few useful words he remembers from the bastard tongue. “Peace.”

The man startles out of his doze, reaching for his sword before the word registers.

There is no way to convey what he intends to do in the mongrel language merchants use, but he approaches slowly, carefully spreading one blanket on the sand in the deepest part of the hollow, then gesturing the Christian toward it, pantomiming what he intends. “Share,” Yusuf repeats over and over, occasionally trying the word in other languages.

They keep their weapons, even as they lie down next to each other, and pull first Yusuf’s second blanket over them, and then the Christian’s cloak.

He’s already warmer, and it only takes a couple of minutes for them both to quit shivering. They’re silent, but eventually drift to sleep.

Yusuf is jerked out of sleep near dawn, the Christian shouting something in his own tongue with sword in hand. Rolling out of the bedding, Yusuf grabs his knife, holding it at the ready. He wasn’t planning on dying today, but it hasn’t worked so far so…

He glances up, trying to determine what has the man so angry before the day has even properly begun, and freezes.

“You!” What darkness and charity had hidden last night is more than obvious in the morning. “What are you doing here?”

He looks… tired and hungry in the sunlight, his scabbard dusty with sand and sole saddlebag near empty. But it is very definitely the same Frank who killed him outside Antioch, and again and again over the past year. Here again, like his own personal demon— even if he looks more human than ever.

The response makes no more sense than the shouting earlier, but Yusuf can guess the content. He drops his knife into the sand, watching the other man. They can’t understand each other without making an effort, but actions are loud in the desert.

No, Yusuf is not going to kill him. No, he’s not going to attempt to harm him even. He is safe from Yusuf’s hand.

Eventually, the Frank throws down his sword, taking a few steps to reach his bag, pulling out a crust of bread that’s seen better days. He passes it to Yusuf with a frown and a nod, payment for a night’s shared blanket. He says something quietly, none of it touching his eyes, before gathering his meager possessions and heading towards the road again.

Yusuf thinks about calling after him, pressing his bread back into the man’s hands, perhaps trying to converse, but he has his own morning routine to see to, prayers and caring for his horse. They’re heading in the same direction, he’ll find the man eventually.


End file.
